His best memories
by Sapphira Antares
Summary: We knew his worst and sympathized. But what could Severus Snape's best memories be?
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**Disclaimer: **This is an amateur work of fanfiction. J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter and all its characters from which I claim nothing at all.

**Author's Note: **This is my first Harry Potter fanfic, readers! I've written it to commemorate Mother's Day, but posted it here ahead of time. Please review, so that I'd know whether I can be a Harry Potter fanfic writer or not; and a **happy Mother's Day in advance**, everyone!

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**HIS BEST MEMORIES**

He had hardly stepped inside his office, when a strange light fell on his pallid face, and before him stood Potter in front of his desk with his head immersed in the pensieve he had so foolishly left unguarded. He had barely heard someone speaking inside the shallow stone basin in a tiny , all too familiar, arrogant voice he had not heard for fifteen years; but loathed and despised all the same. His innermost secrets were dancing before the equally arrogant little boy he had so despised!

Shaking with fury, Snape shot out his trembling hand and seized Potter's arm, squeezing it with all his might upon doing it with that unconscious intention of crushing it to pulp. Inside the pensieve, a pallid-skinned teenager was hanging upside down in the air, his black robe hanging over his ears. Another boy stood beside him, waving a wand as few more stood around them, laughing unkindly. Mortified, Potter turned around with wide open eyes.

"So," said Snape. "…been enjoying yourself, Potter?"

Potter, too shocked and caught off guard groped around the roof of his own mouth for words.

"N-no. I – "

The resemblance with the tiny, laughing, wand waving boy with untidy hair and the boy standing before Snape was striking.

Snape looked at the pensieve with utmost repulsion. "Amusing man your father was, wasn't he?" he spat, trying to vent off all his anger and hatred at Potter by shaking him vigorously. He did not even wait to listen to Potter's next line of plea and self-defense, throwing him on the hard stone floor with all his might.

"You will not repeat what you saw to anybody!" bellowed Snape, his face getting whiter every second, as Potter struggled to his feet and backed away, keeping his annoyingly green eyes fixed firmly on him. Snape's hands madly reached to his side, tumbling and knocking over jars and containers.

"No – no, of course I w – "

Snape's shaking hands found a glass jar. His rage was too blind and wild in ecstasy that it knocked over another wooden chest from goodness knows where as he took aim.

"Get out!" roared Snape. "Get out! I don't want to see you in this office ever again!"

He flung the jar at Potter. It shattered over Potter's head as it hit the door, raining dead cockroaches down on him. Potter frantically wrenched the door open, tumbled out of the office and fled as fast as his legs could carry him.

It seemed ages, long, long ages spanning centuries; that he eyed the door with an uncontrollable fire burning inside him. If his face had been pallid before, it was now boiling hotter every second, burning as the furious wave of anger and hatred erupting inside his system took over. He had been a fool to allow himself to be caught off guard like that – a fool, because Potter had a hand in it. He hated himself for it almost as much as he hated the boy.

The office was in shambles. After Potter's wild escapade, he had allowed his own wand to take charge; allowed a wave of loathing and fury so violent to pass through it that a lot of chests, jars and containers were knocked over. His anger at Potter had blinded him. Some of the spilled potions gave off noxious fumes, some smoked wildly as they oozed out of their vials, and some dead creatures throbbed as they lay scattered. Fuming, Snape raised his wand and muttered a few incantations that sounded more like curses than anything; and in an eyeblink, the objects flew back their proper places with a clutter.

If only things were as easy. But he know all too well with spite that there were some things that could not be corrected my a mere flick of a wooden wand. So angry was he, that as he sat back down on his office chair to mull things over, Snape found himself still out of breath, still baring his teeth now and then even without realizing it.

The pensieve was still alight, sitting upon his desk, his memories still swimming upon it. It reflected upon his face, making it whiter than it had ever been.

Flinging his wand away violently, Snape looked at it without moving from where he sat and frowned.

"_Fine!_" said a little voice from inside the stone basin. "_I won't bother in future."_

Snape scowled as he reached for his wand.

"_And I'd wash my pants if I were you, Snivellus!"_

He furiously pointed his wand at the pensieve as the vivid face of a pretty girl with red hair swam upon its surface. It faded slowly as the silvery fluid-like substance went back into his wand as he, scowling, replaced it back inside his head.

Lifting the penseive and placing it at the topmost shelf at his right, he had to keep his malignity with Potter at bay for the moment to plan for his lesson the next day, his thoughts still fully immersed on Potter, intermixed with spite and vengeful repulsion. He was particularly bad tempered as he foraged around his office. But his wild ride had misplaced some things totally off their places, and a visit to Professor Sprout's greenhouse was needed.

Frustrated, Snape settled back upon his chair, grabbed a bottle from his desk drawer, uncorked it and drained it down with one gulp. There was not much firewhiskey left in it anyway. He flung the empty bottle upon the desk which was, by now laden with ingredients of every type and colour, living and non living that he would use for his next class. Standing back up, Snape reached for his cloak hanging on a peg beside a shelf and put it on. If he hurry, he would still catch Professor Sprout down by the greenhouse, remembering that she sometimes worked late. Then, perhaps the last dregs of the day just might pass with something positive going his way. Perhaps not.

Just as he was about to leave, his foot got caught. With a frustrated mutter to himself, Snape looked at the stray object lying at the base of his desk – one of the small chests he had knocked over in his madness at Potter, and overlooked when he cleared the place up. Fuming, he picked it up and set it upon the table. It looked pretty much like the other objects strewn beside it : dusty and drab. This one had age to add to it, dating back perhaps decades and decades. The metal rims around the lid were powdered with rust.

"Alohamora," said Snape lazily.

The lid flew open with a bang. He looked inside. Nothing interesting there, nor had he expected any. Only a tiny snitch that looked so old and faded that it lay quite still, a set of ancient looking gobstones and a broken eagle feather quill – and something wrapped in brown paper lay at the bottom. There was nothing else.

Cursing himself at wasting his time, Snape emptied its contents in an empty cauldron, drew out his wand again and pointed it inside. He was about to mutter a spell to wipe them out, as he had done with scores of unwanted items before, but his tongue suddenly halted, as if he had been langlocked. Snape's eyes fell upon the brown wrapping paper, cursing himself silently a second time. It reminded him of a muggle shopping bag.

Snape blinked. He never went to muggle shops on his own. His mother used to take him as a child.

Tearing it open, an old, tattered photograph came into view. Snape's eyes slightly widened as the black and white picture of a woman moved before him, smiling and spinning as it hugged a young boy who looked no older than five – a boy with flopping greasy black hair, and not yet fully developed, but budding hooked nose.

For a moment he was too shocked, too dumbfounded ; and more surprised at how long he had kept this photo in his office without noticing it; or how old it was.

**Continued on Page 2**


	2. Page 2

The dungeons were very quiet, as if they were really not a part of all the paraphernalia going on at the rest of the school. It was past midnight when he got back from the greenhouse, slightly wetted by a fresh torrent of rain, bringing in a rich dusky smell from the grounds. Inside, his desk was exactly as he had left it. Frowning, slightly exasperated with himself, Snape reached into his pocket and took out the main reason he visited Sprout in the first place – a tiny packet of roots, and flung it on the desk. Upon doing it, something fell out that caught his hand from the deeper corner of his pocket – the old photo again.

Mrs. Eileen Snape was still spinning round and round, like a merry go round. Severus picked it up and held it in front of him. His mother was not beautiful. As a matter of fact he had known and seen a lot of witches more beautiful than her (and he ignored them). Most of the time Mrs. Snape had this dull, sullen look about her, yet Severus, at that moment, realized why he had kept this photo with him all these years, and how precious it was: his mother was smiling.

Slightly surprised with himself at how quickly melancholy had caught up to him, Snape drew out his wand, muttered an incantation and the messy desk flew back in order with a clutter. Crossing over his desk, he took the pensieve down from the topmost shelf and placed it back on the desk. Coming around from the other side, he took the brass cauldron and tipped it over beside the pensieve.

He carefully extracted a thin film of thought from his head with his wand and let it fall upon the shallow stone basin, surveying its contents quickly.

Mrs. Snape appeared. She was laughing – surrounded by hundreds of cheering witches and wizards with young Severus beside her. They were watching the Quidditch World Cup.

Snape blinked and flew back to the present. His eyes fell upon the old and faded, dead snitch on his desk, and remembered in an instant how his mother had spent nearly three-fourths of her month's salary for the tickets; and buying that snitch from the winning team for him.

Pursing his lips, Snape extracted a second wisp of memory from behind his greasy black locks and allowed it to fall gently.

This time, he was preparing for his Transfiguration O.W.L.s. James Potter had jinked fifteen year-old Severus's quill, making it squirt ink all over his face.

Adult Snape's eyes widened slightly as a little scene formed upon the pensieve right before him - a picture of a pretty girl with red hair with an eagle feather quill.

Snape's eyes now trailed towards the eagle-feather quill lying a few inches away from his curled fingers. He did not remember how, but it had snapped in half.

He breathed deeply and opened the drawer of his desk. Out rolled a new bottle of firewhiskey, which he uncorked with a zap from his wand, and drank with another gulp. The warmth of the liquid trailing down his insides lingered as the little scene inside the pensieve slowly faded like a cloud.

His mother had been very excited the day he passed his O.W.L.s with flying colours; remembered Snape. He also remembered her smiles fading when his father, Mr. Snape returned and insulted her by declaring it nothing more than a "friggin' nonsense".

He breathed deeply as flashes of subsequent events came back upon his own memory, flashes he'd rather not put inside the pensieve.

Mrs. Snape pleaded to Mr. Snape that her son was not a worthless, lazy little git as her husband called him so many uncountable times. Mr. Snape said he was; like all the friggin' rest of them. Severus could remember how his mother cried till morning, how she had refused to use her wand to hex Mr. Snape … how she had come between Severus and his father when he, Severus; tried to hex the old muggle himself; telling him with tears streaming down her face that it was not a "nice thing to do".

Snape frowned, put his wand up to his temple, and extracted another strand of memory.

"_Mustn't hurt daddy-" _came a little voice from the pensieve as he blinked. Mrs. Snape's face was swollen. Her hair was all loose and tangled. "_Put – put that wand away, Severus darling," _she pleaded.

Snape's sight began to blur as he extracted another wisp of memory from his temple, settling it down upon the pensieve on top of the others, prodding it with his wand until it became crystal-clear.

Images were forming as Snape took another swig of firewhiskey.

Mrs. Snape was playing gobstones with her little five year-old son. He was laughing excitedly when one of the stones squirted goo all over his mother's face. Mrs. Snape was screaming with laughter as she chased him all around the house, trying to kiss him. She caught him on the kitchen, fell over him on the floor and smothered him with slimy kisses.

Snape breathed deeply as he replaced the memories back inside his head. He blinked his foggy vision away, stood and paced around the table, picking the items on his desk as he went – reminisces of his better past, as he now knew and put then. He remembered clearly now why they were there, even though it dated back decades ago, back to a simpler time. It was a strangely melancholic young Severus Snape who had took those little things and stored them away for safe keeping. It was now a fully grown, adult Severus Snape who realized that they were the only truly happy memories within his conscious perception hidden at the far corner of his mind, so well preserved that no one may break into them again, except by accident that is; as he had so thoroughly learned from that night's happenings. They had faded through wear and tear all throughout his Death-Eater days. At some point, his outlook on them might have changed as well, as what he thought to be happy memories got replaced; and the replacements turning out to be nothing more than mere ambitions. Those ambitions – being a powerful wizard instead of a slimy little git; or being a defence against the Dark Arts teacher and what not – met with disappointments, losses and failures; made him bitter, made him cold; made him who he is today. But still, _these_ memories – they were his best. They showed his mother smiling when there was rarely a time she had ever did.

His continuous swigs of firewhiskey began to make him a little light headed when he finally left his office in darkness, slipped on his faded grey nightrobe and climbed to his old four-poster bed. Even then, he was in for a sleepless night, he knew. Hundreds of unseen memories were dancing inside his head – some truly horrible ones from his more terrible past that were safe and secure. But those little reminiscences, now hidden in the most secret corner of his office and protected with every form of spell and magic; will be there, always – his simpler side; his happiest of days.

As Snape turned in his bed nearly an hour later, with a deep, long breath he mused upon Potter again. He had to give Potter the cold shoulder now, for breaking into his worst memory. What treatment would he give, had he accidentally broken into his best?

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_There you have it: My first complete Harry Potter fanfic, folks. So what is your verdict? Please review!_


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